


Dragon Age Reddit Prompts Year 3

by SerenityFalconNormandy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adamant Fortress (Dragon Age), Dalish Elves, Destruction of Highever, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - In Hushed Whispers, Dragon Age: Origins Quest - Unrest in the Alienage, F/M, Gen, Mage Warden Chancellor, Mother Giselle (Dragon Age) - Freeform, Orlesians, Post-Dragon Age: Origins Quest - The Landsmeet, Redcliffe (Dragon Age), Search for the Cure (Dragon Age), Solas and Mythal, Song: Drunken Lullabies (Flogging Molly), The Chantry (Dragon Age), The Dawn Will Come (Dragon Age), The Last Kiss, Therinfal Redoubt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-18 21:38:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 18,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20198578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenityFalconNormandy/pseuds/SerenityFalconNormandy
Summary: The third collection of one-shots written based on the Dragon Age Reddit's Weekly Writing Prompts thread. Slight AU/canon divergence for Alistair/Surana.Edited for grammar, content, and other annoyances with the help of the wonderful IncreasingLight.





	1. Please Stop (Fen + Solas)

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Inquisitors POV: Their thoughts as everyone sings The Dawn Will Come.
> 
> Fen'lath didn't want this. She never wanted this.

When the shouting had woken Fen’lath up, she had been discomfited to see that she had been left to Mother Giselle’s care. Her relationship with the Chantry Mother had grown strained since the woman had joined the Inquisition, as she seemed to be wilfully ignoring that Fen had no interest in converting to Andrastianism, or pretending to be divine at all.

Every concern of hers was waved off with a ‘The Maker brought you to us’. The other woman’s misplaced faith was getting tiring, and Fen spent most of her time alone wondering how far she could run before the seemingly benign Mother sicced Templars on her. As much as she appreciated the fact that she needed the Inquisition to stop Corypheus and close the rifts still remaining after the closure of the Breach, it was still the Chantry. The same Chantry that had destroyed her people’s homeland and continued to harry them with their forces when they had nothing better to do.

Memories of clans sundered by Templars, the knowledge that her own mother had likely been taken by them, made it hard to trust any of the people surrounding her. Most days, she felt like Solas was the only one who could empathize with her feeling of displacement. Dorian understood some of it, but he was noble, human, and Andrastian. He couldn’t grasp the particulars of being a non-Andrastian elf in the middle of a group actively pushing her up on a plinth as a holy figure for their religion, with no regard to what she actually believed, or even felt.

When Giselle tried another one of ‘The Maker’ speeches, Fen had to grit her teeth and maintain a neutral expression on her face. Her head was pounding, and her face hurt. Removing her gloves, she gently touched the aching part of her mouth. Scabs criss-crossed her lips. Moving up her cheek, she found scabs that came much too close to her eyes, and a large band of healing flesh across her neck. It was easier to ignore Giselle while taking stock of the newly acquired scarring. As soon as there was an opening, Fen stood and hurried away from the overbearing human woman. Giselle’s mouth pinched with disapproval, knowing her attempt at converting 'the Dalish savage', or at least talking her into pretending to be Andraste’s Herald, had failed once again. 

The shouting had stopped, at least. Josephine stared into the fire while Leliana sat next to her, silent and cold. Cullen and Cassandra glared at each other over their salvaged war table, attempting to plan… something. Fen wracked her brain, taking deep breaths and calling on everything Keeper had taught her about being a leader. She was preparing a speech in her head when her thoughts were scattered by singing.

“Shadows fall, 

And hope has fled

Steel your heart

The Dawn will come.”

Giselle stepped forward, a glint of triumph in her eye. Fen thought, _ Oh no. What is she doing? _

“The night is long,

And the path is dark

Look to the sky,

For one day soon,

The Dawn will come.”

Josephine and Leliana perked up, hope flooding their faces. Cassandra’s hard expression relaxed, and her eyes softened. When the Mother started the next verse, Leliana joined in.

Fen’s skin crawled with discomfort.

“The shepherd's lost

And his home is far.

Keep to the stars,

The Dawn will come.”

Breaths coming faster, Fen fought the urge to run as more voices joined in. Soldiers, servants, humans, too many humans were surrounding her and singing. Cullen joined in, and she wanted to scream “Stop!”

“The night is long

And the path is dark.

Look to the sky, 

For one day soon,

The Dawn will come.”

More people closed in on her. Her heart pounded against her breastplate, and her breaths were coming so fast she was starting to feel light-headed. She knew what had happened to elves that the Chantry had claimed as holy before. When would they light the pyre and throw her on it? A martyr was easier to use than a living, breathing person who could speak the truth.

When they started kneeling to her, it took everything Fen had to keep herself from fainting, or screaming at them to stop it.

“Bare your blade,

And raise it high.

Stand your ground

The Dawn will come.

The night is long, 

And the path is dark.

Look to the sky

For one day soon

The Dawn will come.”

She caught sight of Solas, bemused and shaking his head at the _ shemlen _ foolishness. So many faces now filled with hope and belief that she was something divine, something sent by their god, none of hers. Fen shook as Giselle said something, she couldn’t even hear it over the ringing in her ears, but the expression on the Mother’s face was smug.

Fen wanted to throw her arms around Solas and weep with relief when he asked for a word and led her away from all those staring eyes, all hungry for something she couldn’t give.

How long would they wait before they turned on her, as the humans inevitably did with their inconvenient prophets?

  
  
  



	2. No Other Choice (Fen + Solas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: For Inquisitors: Deciding between Templars and Mages
> 
> Fen'lath ponders going to Therinfal Redoubt for the Templars, or Redcliffe to speak to the mages.
> 
> (Also, motion sickness bites.)

Therinfal Redoubt and the Templars, or Redcliffe to meet with the mages. It wasn’t truly a choice for Fen’lath. As their small party rode back towards Haven to consult with Leliana and Cullen, Fen mentally prepared herself for the arguments ahead. The rough, jolting motion of the horse trotting gave her a headache, and occasionally, her stomach would lurch. 

Cassandra and Cullen would dismiss the mages offhand. Josephine was likely to as well, for diplomatic purposes, of course. Her only ally would be Leliana. Going through the Blight next to the most famous elf and mage of the Age would make her more likely to agree that the mages were the ones to contact first. 

“I have never seen the Lord Seeker behave in such a way. To strike a Revered Mother in public- this is not like him at all, Herald. When we return to Haven, we must have Josephine investigate what can be done to get us to Therinfal Redoubt at once.”

“Mm.”

“I don’t think you understand, Fen’lath. The Lord Seeker is acting erratic, nothing like a Templar or Seeker should.”

Swallowing hard, Fen murmured back, “I’m not quite used to riding horses yet, Cassandra.”

“I...see. Do we need to stop again?”

“I’d prefer not to.”

The Seeker continued to ramble on and on about the Lord Seeker’s behavior. Perhaps it was erratic to Cassandra, but as a Dalish elf, it was completely in-line with her experience of the Templars. Punching an elderly woman while wearing metal gauntlets and splitting her face open, shattering her nose…  Fen had seen an elderly  _ hahren _ from an Orlesian clan who was blind in one eye from a Templar’s ‘erratic behavior’. She could remember the first time she’d ever seen an abomination. A clan Lavellan had crossed paths with had been raided by Templars, the Keeper and First taken, the Second beaten so badly there were fears he wouldn’t survive. One of the mage children who had not been taken refused to sleep because of the nightmares demons were causing, and in his exhaustion, he hadn’t been able to resist anymore. The already ravaged clan had been desperate for help. 

If she tried to explain it to Cassandra or the Commander, she was almost certain her protests against the Templars would fall on deaf ears. Would they dismiss them as outliers, one-off incidents? Fen felt nauseated as the horse jolted again underneath her, the motion she wasn’t used to joining the memories of burned aravels and the scent of halla blood soaking the ground. 

She grabbed Cassandra’s sleeve, blurting out, “We need to stop, now!”

Her knees buckled when she dropped from the saddle to the ground, and Fen scrambled into the bushes before heaving up the contents of her stomach. Varric’s voice rumbled behind her, then the soft murmur of Solas’s voice. The foliage behind her rustled, and Solas sat down next to her in the soft loam. Cool fingers touched the back of her neck, and the roiling in her stomach eased. 

“There, Fen’lath. Are you settled now?”

Curling up towards him, she nodded, forehead pressed against his thigh.

“Perhaps we should have Ambassador Montilyet work on finding a different mount for you. Would your clan be averse to sending you a halla to ride?”

“My Keeper-” She cut off to breathe deeply for a moment, “My Keeper wouldn’t risk the halla like that. Halla don’t do well on the sea.”

“Hmm. A hart might be better for you, then. They have a similar gait to halla.”

“It wasn’t really the horse, Solas. I can’t… I can’t go to the Templars. No matter what Cassandra says, he was acting perfectly normal to me.”

“Ah. Your clan had a run-in with Templars?”

“No, thankfully. Other clans, but we found one while we were wandering in the Free Marches.”

“You intend to go to the mages at Redcliffe, then.”

“Well, the Grand Enchanter  _ did  _ come to invite me in person, and didn’t assault an elderly woman.”

Solas chuckled, clearing his throat after the little snort at the end. “A fair point," he paused, and after a moment of hesitation, began stroking her hair. "There will be an argument with the Lady Seeker and Commander.”

“Oh, most definitely.”

Varric rustled into the bushes, “Is Grace okay, Chuckles?”

“I’m better, Varric. Thank you.” Fen stood up and dusted the soil from her clothes. She did feel much better. Varric was likely to be in her corner. As Solas helped her back into the saddle, and slipped her a small piece of ginger to chew, she knew he would back her up as well.


	3. Hide and Seek (Gwyn + Alistair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “You found me after all this time.” and “Of course, I never stopped looking.”
> 
> Gwyneth is being pursued by someone who was trained by the two best rogues in the kingdom.

Gwyneth ran through the halls of the palace, bare feet making no sounds on the thick carpets covering the floor. She darted behind a pillar, trying to keep her breathing as quiet as possible while she caught her breath. Peeking around the stone column, Gwyn scanned the hall she’d just dashed down. No sign of her pursuers.

She tiptoed over to the children’s sitting room, and whipped herself around the doorframe and in. Stretching as tall as she could, Gwyn shoved her slippers on the top shelf of the closest bookshelf. The leather soles made too much noise, even on carpets, so she’d removed them earlier but hadn’t had an opportunity to ditch them. Just dropping them anywhere would leave a trail she couldn’t afford. Peering out the door and scanning the hall again, she inched her way out.

There was a giggle behind her, and a tug on her sleeve. Gwyn bit back a shriek of surprise, then turned and curtsied to Moira. In a serious tone, she said, “You found me after all this time. Well done, Highness.”

“Of course, I never stopped looking!” The princess was triumphant, almost dancing in place with excitement. “My brothers got bored, but I knew I could find you. Uncle Nate and Uncle Zev are going to be so proud!”

“They are, and I am as well.” Gwyn knelt and hugged the little girl, who threw her arms around her neck.

Pulling away, Moira’s face fell, “Do you really have to leave, Gwynnie?”

_ Oh dear.  _ Anxious amber eyes scanned Gwyn’s face, and she could see Moira was fighting back tears. Ever since Elissa had died, anyone leaving for whatever reason upset the girl. How did you explain that finding a cure for Alistair was a top priority? The child and her siblings shouldn’t lose another parent. She led Moira back to the sitting room and sat down on the couch, patting the cushion next to her. Climbing up, the little girl cuddled up to Gwyn and wrapped her arms around her waist.

Petting the girl’s hair, Gwyn answered her question, “I do, Moira. I would much rather stay with you, your brothers, and your sister, but I have to go.”

“Why?”

“What did your Papa tell you?”

Small shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Just that it was important.”

“Hmm.” Alistair was trying to protect his daughter from the darker things in life, Gwyn could appreciate that. For this, however, the truth, with a bit of gloss in deference to Moira’s age, was needed. “Well, you know your Papa and I were Grey Wardens, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

  
“And you know Grey Wardens can feel and kill darkspawn.”

“Uh-huh.”

“When someone becomes a Grey Warden, they do something very special that gives them those powers. But having them too long makes the person sick, very sick. They have to leave and go somewhere else, all alone, so they don’t accidentally get other people sick, and it’s very sad.” Moira’s eyes grew wide. Gwyn moved on quickly, “I got better on my own, so I won’t get sick and I won’t have to leave and stay away.”

“But Papa can still get sick, right? You’re looking for medicine for him? Why can’t Papa just do what you did?” Moira was too sharp by half.

Gwyn felt her face go a bit red. She wasn’t going to explain that Alistair getting pregnant wasn’t an option. “We don’t know why I got better, so I have to go looking for medicine for him. Believe me, Moira, if I didn’t have to leave, I wouldn’t.”

“Will you write to me?”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to get letters to you, but I promise I will do what I can to let Uncle Zev know that I’m okay. Uncle Nate, Miss Velanna, Miss Sigrun, and Ser Oghren are coming with me. You know Uncle Nate will keep me safe.”

Moira scoffed, “You’ll keep Uncle Nate safe. Not the other way around.”

“You think so?”

“Know so.” Serious expression settling on her face, “Promise you’ll come back, okay?”

Gwyn held up her hand, pinky sticking out. Moira stuck out hers and they looped them together. “I promise, Moira. I’ll do everything I can to come back, and to help your Papa get better.”

“You better.”


	4. An End and a Beginning (Gwyneth + Alistair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I never stood a chance, did I?" & "You did, once, a long time ago."
> 
> Gwyneth has chosen to let Alistair fight Loghain for the crown at the Landsmeet.
> 
> (I'm still alive! Just needed some time to get everything beta'd)

Gwyneth chewed on her fingernail watching Alistair and Loghain duel. Every time the older warrior’s blade found a gap in Alistair’s defenses, her heart stopped for a dreadful moment. Fortunately for both of them, there weren’t many there for the traitorous Teyrn to find. She could feel Anora’s glare burning into her, until her gaze was ripped away when Loghain kicked Alistair in the chest. Gwyn bit her lip, hard enough she could taste blood, before blowing out a gasp of relief when her beloved rolled away from the sword swinging down at him. Elissa’s grip on her hand tightened. They needed him to win. If he lost… 

There was no ‘if’, he had to win.

Loghain was slowing down. He was older, more seasoned, but tired quickly compared to the younger man. Anora bit back a cry as Alistair’s boot connected with the center of her father’s chest, hand shooting forward like she could stop the flurry of blows that rained down upon him in quick succession. The entire Landsmeet gasped as Loghain’s blade was ripped from his grasp. Alistair knocked it away. Gwyn and Elissa sidestepped the missile as it rattled to the flagstones of the Landsmeet chamber, well out of Loghain’s reach, and outside the area where he was allowed to step if he wanted to maintain honorable combat.

Another swing, and Loghain was sent clattering across the floor much like his blade had just done, skidding to a stop on the opposite side of the circle of bodies, with no hope of continuing the fight.

“So, there’s some of Maric in you after all,” he sneered up at Alistair. 

Elissa’s fingers bit into hers. This was it. Alistair’s eyes narrowed at the fallen warrior and murmuring broke out, Anora making a despairing, groaning noise. One of the Banns who had supported him, Lady Erimene, fainted. He had verbally confirmed that Alistair was Maric’s son. Nevermind that he wore his brother’s armor, and carried his father’s blade. Nevermind that when he stood in the gap between the coronation portraits of both men, Alistair bore a familial resemblance that could not be denied. The man who had denied Alistair’s heritage had, with a slip of the tongue, given his rival the legitimacy needed to claim the throne.

“Forget Maric, this is for Duncan,” Alistair growled as he raised his blade.

“Wait.” Elissa’s voice cut through and the swing halted. The noblewoman was pale, eyes huge and filling with tears. 

“What?” 

“Not in front of Anora.” Anora fell to her knees, the keening noise still rattling out of her.

Gwyn realized what Elissa was saying instantly. “Alistair, let him have a few last words with his daughter, then we’ll remove her. He’ll get what’s coming to him, but we should be better than him and Howe.”

For a moment, it looked like Alistair would go ahead anyway, fury pouring off of him, red hot and eager for vengeance. Then, his shoulders slumped and he nodded. “Five minutes, Loghain.”

Guards swarmed the erstwhile Teyrn and the former Queen. Gwyn followed them to the back of the chamber, away from overeager ears. Behind the wall of armored bodies, Anora abandoned all pretense of royal hauteur and sobbed while she clung to Loghain. Resignation writ large on his face, he murmured his goodbyes into her hair. Giving the two their privacy, Gwyn kept her eyes on the wall, counting down the seconds in her head.

“It’s time.” Her voice was rough and harsh, even to her ears.

“No, no it is not, you traitorous bitch!” Anora rounded on Gwyn. Looking at the guards, she snapped, “As your queen, I order you to arrest these women! Now!”

Ser Cauthrian stepped forward, exhaustion drawing her face taut, “Your Grace, I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. Not yet.” Anora pulled herself up straight, back and shoulders stiff as the guards escorted her away.

Gwyn stepped up to Loghain, “It’s time, ser.”

“Do you know what you’ve done, rabbit?” he snarled at her.

“Do you?” she shot back. “Normal soldiers can’t fight an Archdemon, you  _ have  _ to have Wardens. I’ve read my history, I know what was done to your family during the Occupation.” She paused, and decided to twist the knife. “Nice use of ‘rabbit’, by the way, like a run-of-the-mill Orlesian noble who thinks their way is the only way,” Loghain’s nostrils flared and his neck went red, “And what you’ve done to hundreds of families in Ferelden is a thousand times worse than anything the Orlesians could have done. Than anything they did during the occupation. You’ve become what you hated most, Loghain.”

Loghain lifted his hand to strike her, and the guards piled onto him. From the floor under the guards pinning him down, he shouted, “You don’t know anything, you’ve doomed Ferelden! How many will die because of you?”

“Because of me? You should know what you’ve condemned hundreds of Fereldan women to endure.”

Leaning forward, Gwyn described, in the most graphic detail she could stomach, what was done to women to turn them into Broodmothers. To Loghain’s credit, he lost a little color in his face. Breathing harsh in her lungs, she hissed into his ear, “And without the Wardens to stop the Blight, you would doom Anora to that fate. How does it feel to know your only grandchildren would have been darkspawn?”

His body shuddered. “I never stood a chance, did I?”

Gwyn straightened up, standing over him, “You did, once, a long time ago. Before you neglected to tell King Cailan about the darkspawn in the Tower of Ishal. Before you stole Jowan from the Templars and sent him to Redcliffe to poison the Arl. Before you allowed that Blighter Howe to massacre the Couslands.”

Riordan materialized next to her, panting. “Wait. He could… pardon me, I am still weak… He could be inducted into the Wardens. He could make up for his crimes by fighting the Archdemon.”

Cheeks flushed with anger, Gwyn rounded on Riordan, “If you want him in the Wardens, go ahead and Join him, but it will be him and you alone against the Archdemon. I will not ask the forces  _ I’ve  _ gathered to risk their lives under someone who I cannot guarantee won’t turn and run the moment he’s Joined. He has done  _ nothing _ to make me think he will honor a vow to the Wardens, Right of Conscription or no.”

  
“But-”

  
“No, Riordan. I will not allow it. This is a Fereldan matter, not a Warden matter.”

Turning away from the speechless Warden, she gestured, and the guards stood Loghain back onto his feet. “Take him to the dais, sers.”

Alistair and Elissa were already on the dais, speaking quietly to each other while Arl Eamon tried to look like he wasn’t attempting to eavesdrop. Loghain knelt facing the Landsmeet chamber, and Gwyn stood at the base of the steps.

“Loghain Mac Tir, in the name of His Majesty, King Alistair Theirin, you are charged as a traitor to the realm. Your crimes are as follows. The poisoning of Arl Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe, as well as the unlawful imprisonment of the Templar escorting the apostate you used to carry out the poisoning. The unlawful imprisonment of the rightful Arl of Denerim, Vaughan Kendalls, while concealing his crimes against the populace of Denerim and not presenting him to the Landsmeet for judgement and to make his imprisonment lawful. The unlawful imprisonment and torture of Lord Oswyn of Dragon Peak. Conspiring with Arl Rendon Howe to massacre the residents of Highever, and illegally naming Howe a Teyrn. The illegal sale of Fereldan citizens into slavery. Abandoning His Majesty, King Cailan, on the field of battle after withholding vital intelligence. For your crimes, you have been sentenced to death. Your Majesty.”

Gwyn turned and bowed to Alistair. Face hard, he stepped forward, lifting Maric’s blade high. A single stroke was all it took. It was the end of the Teyrn, and a beginning for Alistair. As the blood splattered their armor, Gwyn prayed, to a god she wasn’t sure she believed in.

_ Maker, let this have been the right choice.  _


	5. Drunken Lullabies (Marian + Fenris)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The calm before the storm, soldiers singing, a whisper of breeze, Red!
> 
> Marian Hawke tries to get some sleep the night before the assault on Adamant Fortress.
> 
> ("Drunken Lullabies" by Flogging Molly, I don't own a single note/lyric.)

Marian sat alone on a dune overlooking the Warden fortress of Adamant. The whisper of a breeze shushed over the sand, scattering grains everywhere and fluttering her hair into a wild raven halo around her head. Looking back over her shoulder and squinting into the following gusts, she could make out the campfires of the Inquisition forces. The dunes hid them from the view of the fortress. When the sun rose in the morning, they would lay siege. 

The dark red of the sunset was quickly blocked out by giant, dark clouds scuttling across the sky as the breeze grew to a harsh desert wind. Watching the giant thunderheads, Marian drew in a deep breath. The air was moist, but didn’t carry the petrichor scent that meant they would release their rain on the Approach. They were bound for the Orlesian Heartlands, and the fields that had been conspicuously light on farming peasants as the army had made its way through. Bloody Orlesians and their civil war. They had learned nothing from the Occupation and its aftermath, and as always in war, the peasantry would be the ones starving. 

Turning back to the fortress, Marian watched the twinkle of torches walking along the battlements. Did they know what was coming? Were they questioning their decision to listen to Clarel yet? Supposedly, the Hero and the Wardens that she had taken under her wing were far away and wouldn’t be in Adamant. She didn’t entirely trust Sister Leliana to be straight with her when she asked, but it was the most reassurance she was going to get that she wouldn’t be killing a Fereldan national hero.

The wind moaned around Marian, and biting sting of the blown sand became too much. Standing and shielding her eyes, she made her way down the dune back into the camp. Some of the soldiers who recognized her were wide-eyed in awe, some narrowed their eyes and curled their lips at her. Whatever, she wasn’t with the Inquisition to make friends. She was there to make Corypheus suffer before killing him again in the most painful way imaginable. 

Her tent was next to Fen’lath’s, a little apart from the rest of the Inquisition’s inner circle and their tents. Aside from their discussions about helping to get Carver off lyrium, she and Cullen had maintained a wide berth from each other. He was still angry about Marian talking to Solona about her views and opinions on his time in Kirkwall. Unsurprisingly, those views were less than flattering. Even in the weeks leading up to the Chantry explosion, he’d been threatening recruits simply because there was a suspicion they were associating with mages. She’d watched him support Meredith as she illegally Annulled the Kirkwall Circle. He had participated in that Annulment, and only stopped to consider what was going on when Marian herself had been threatened with death instead of arrest. What had he honestly expected - a wholesale endorsement of her cousin’s feelings? 

Shaking her head, she crossed to the tent. Hopefully, she’d be able to get an hour or two of sleep. It hadn’t been happening often lately, but she’d still give it the old try.

“Hey Kid, you okay?”

Marian stopped before ducking into her tent, and turned to Iron Bull. It wasn’t worth trying to lie to the giant Qunari, he’d see right through it. “I know I killed Corypheus the last time I saw him. Yet, here we are fighting him again, plus a bunch of mule-headed Wardens.”

“Yeah, I can see why that would qualify as ‘not okay’. C’mon, have a drink with the Chargers, it’ll cheer you up.”

“Do I look like I need cheering up?”

“Nah, but ending the day on a high note will help you sleep better. Sleep equals more prepared for whatever shit the Wardens throw at us tomorrow.” Bull’s eye twinkled. Damn, he’d noticed. “Those battlements aren’t gonna take themselves.”

“All right, if you insist.”

“Aw, don’t say it like I’m twisting your arm.”

Dropping her shoulder and pantomiming having her arm twisted, Marian danced around him, “Ow, stoppit Bull! I said I’d come, ow!”

“Smartass.”

“Every chance I get!”

As he roared with laughter, Bull steered Marian over to the fire in the middle of the Chargers’ camp. Some of the soldiers around them were singing that damned hymn that they had apparently decided was the Inquisition’s rallying song.

Dropping into place between Dalish and Krem, Marian asked, “Do any of you know other songs? If I have to hear that Blighted hymn one more time, I’m going to go insane.”

Dalish perked up, “Grim, do you remember how to play that song we heard in the tavern in Nevarra?”

“Grunt,” Grim stood and ducked into his tent, then emerged with a mandolin in his arms. Dalish dashed to hers, pulled a bodhran out of her packs, and drummed on it lightly. Warming up quickly, Grim strummed the mandolin and then began picking out a fast, jig-like tune. The other Chargers slapped their thighs or clapped their hands while Dalish rapped on the drum.

“Must it take a life for hateful eyes  
To glisten once again  
Five hundred years like the Blight  
Have blown us all to hell  
What savior rests while on his path we die  
While forgotten freedom burns  
Has the shepard led his lambs astray  
To the bigot and the bow

Must it take a life for hateful eyes  
To glisten once again  
'Cause we find ourselves in the same old mess  
Singin' drunken lullabies”

Soldiers from the other fires began crowding around, listening to the song, and a few who must have been Nevarran singing along. Ales appeared as if from nowhere, shoved into hands to be held aloft while they sang.

“I watch and stare as Archdemon's eyes  
Turn a darker shade of red  
And the arrow with this sniper lie  
In their bloody gutless cell  
Must we starve on crumbs from long ago  
Through bars these men made steel  
Is it a great or little thing we fought  
Knelt the conscience blessed to kill

Must it take a life for hateful eyes  
To glisten once again  
'Cause we find ourselves in the same old mess  
Singin' drunken lullabies”

On the chorus, it felt like everyone around the fire sang along, raising their tankards and taking deep pulls. Marian felt warmth spread through her chest as she shouted along, taking comfort that everyone around also felt they were stuck in ‘the same old mess’. 

“Ah, but maybe it's the way you were taught  
Or maybe it's the way we fought  
But a smile never grins without tears to begin  
For each kiss is a cry we all lost  
Though there is nothing left to gain  
But for the banshee that stole the grave  
'Cause we find ourselves in the same old mess  
Singin' drunken lullabies”

Krem draped his arm over Marian’s shoulders, squeezing her in a familiar and friendly way, and they slammed their ales together. He reminded her of Carver, and the warmth bloomed more at the reminder of her pain-in-the-ass younger brother.

“I sit in and dwell on faces past  
Like memories seem to fade  
No color left but black and white  
And soon will all turn grey  
But may these shadows rise to walk again  
With lessons truly learnt  
When the blossom flowers in each our hearts  
Shall beat a new found flame  
Must it take a life for hateful eyes  
To glisten once again  
'Cause we find ourselves in the same old mess  
Singin' drunken lullabies”

The roar of voices from the Chargers’ fire had drowned out the hymn, and chorus was close to deafening as everyone joined in for the last refrain.

“'Cause we find ourselves in the same old mess  
Singin' drunken lullabies, singin' drunken lullabies.”

A raucous cheer went up, and some of the Nevarrans came forward to thump Grim on the back. Dalish laughed as Bull swung her up in a hug, and he shouted, “Great job, Dalish! I bet the Wardens know we’re here now!”

“Not a chance! We’re downwind.”

The wind whipped through the tents, making the fire snap and crackle while soldiers argued over which tavern song to sing next.

Marian sipped at her ale, comfortable leaning against Krem and listening to him teach the scout who had joined them at the fire how to swear in Tevene. It wasn’t her band of merry misfits, but she felt more at home than she had since leaving Starkhaven. 

Maybe, just maybe, she would sleep tonight, despite everything.


	6. I'm Coming Home (Gwyneth + Alistair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “If you need me, I’ll be in my room, underneath a mountain of blankets, for the foreseeable future.”
> 
> Gwyneth returns to Denerim after attending trade negotiations in Orlais.

_ Denerim. Home. _

Gwyneth stood at the bow of the  _ King’s Favor _ , waiting impatiently as the mighty ship passed through the harbor chains, bound for the Lower Docks. Wisps of hair that had escaped her braids danced around her head in the sea breeze. The time in Orlais had been trying, exhausting on a level she hadn’t anticipated. Whatever she had experienced as an elf and a mage dealing with nobles in Ferelden, it was nothing to how the Orlesian nobles had treated her, even with her title and status.

The Duke’s mistress had been a greater hindrance than a help. Gwyn had anticipated a natural ally in the other mage. Unfortunately, Enchanter Vivienne’s demeanor had changed the moment she figured out Gwyn was not fond of the Circle system. She had gone from warm and welcoming to cool and combative. There was a token measure of respect, since Gwyn was the Chancellor of Ferelden and Hero of the Fifth Blight, but the snide remarks were constant and disparaging. 

It left her longing for home. Now, she was so close, yet so far from her beloved, her friends, the children, and her own room. Making sure she didn’t ruffle any feathers by following the frankly ridiculous rules of etiquette for noble ladies in Orlais had been trying. Grand Entree, Premier Entree, Entree de la Chambre, how many more Entrees could there be? It took her nearly two Blighted hours to get dressed and emerge for the day’s activities! And that didn’t even take into account the dictates to change into other dresses for different activities, and the resulting folderol that entailed. Give her the worn, familiar Warden robes she rarely got to wear anymore any day of the week.

Her slim fingers drummed on the railing as smaller boats glided through the waves to help warp the  _ Favor _ in to the quay. Finally, the wait became too much, and she dashed from the bow to the port side, watching the docks, the spires of the palace, and Fort Drakon draw closer. Gwyn could just make out a cluster of horses and bannermen bearing the royal arms.

Shading her eyes, she scanned the cluster of people. No crown, damn. It wasn’t like she could fling herself into Alistair’s arms in public anyway, but having a moment to link hands and squeeze was so necessary that it brought a lump to her throat.

“Gwyneth!”

They were close enough to being fully docked that she could see Solona waving from atop one of the horses, auburn hair fluttering around her shoulders in the breeze. There was a loud slam as the gangplank hit the dockside, and Gwyn raced down to meet the other mage, flinging her arms out to hug her friend the moment her slippers hit the cobbles.

“Sol! I’m so glad to be home!”

“I’ll bet. If Orlais was even half as bad as your letters made it sound, I’d never want to go there again.”

“You have  _ no _ idea. If I never have to talk to that Enchanter from Montsimmard ever again, it will be too soon.”

Solona grimaced. “I think I remember her. The one who refuses to believe that other Circles aren’t the cushy palaces of Montsimmard and Ostwick?”

“They’re far from cushy, from what I understand,” Gwyn nodded to the footman carrying the stepstool to allow her to mount her palfrey, “It’s just that she hasn’t personally experienced the dark sides of those Circles, therefore they don’t exist.”

The two of them made disgusted noises in unison. They were fortunate. After the Blight and the unintentional humiliation of the Kinloch Hold Templars when Gwyn had cleared the Tower with only three other people, the Fereldan Circles had made a tacit, unspoken agreement that they answered to the Crown, not the Chantry. With Solona acting as Court Enchanter, she’d been able to get the worst offenders in the Templars removed from their positions, and both Kinloch and Jainen were in the midst of extensive renovations to allow the mages living within personal space and privacy. Grand Cleric Elemina was apoplectic over it, but she could not argue with the vastly reduced number of failed Harrowings and instances of Tranquility. Gwyn sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker for her friend.

The trip through the streets to the palace was quick, as construction projects to improve the streets of the capital were in effect. Fergus Cousland’s marriage to Caterina of Rialto had paid dividends with the increased trade with Antiva, and the subsequent influx of cash from the sale of Fereldan wool. Alistair and Elissa had led the Bannorn a merry dance to keep the extra income from sitting in coffers as opposed to being spent for the improvement of the realm. 

As the party rode into the courtyard, Eamon Guerrin gave the mages a stiff bow as they dismounted. “Lady Chancellor, Lady Enchanter.”

“Where is His Majesty, Arl Eamon?” Gwyn ignored the cool, borderline hostile greeting. He’d been angry ever since she’d been named Chancellor instead of him, but rising to his bait wouldn’t change anything.

“The King and Queen are in the midst of a council with the Bannorn. They send their apologies for not being here to greet you. The Queen requested that you be given the rest of the day to settle in, and your reports on the trade talks with Orlais will be presented in the morning.”

Gwyn perked up, “Well, in that case, If you need me, I’ll be in my room, underneath a mountain of blankets, for the foreseeable future. Solona, Arl Eamon.”

Her curtsy was a quick drop of the head and flick of her skirts, barely crisp enough to be proper, then she turned and walked as quickly as was allowed to her room. Viola, her maid, lit up when she entered the room, already tearing at the laces of her gown, “Vi, help me get out of this thing. I’m not leaving my room for the rest of the day and I intend to be in my nightgown for all of it.”

The young woman giggled, and helped unlace, unpin, and un-everything before throwing a soft lawn nightgown over Gwyn’s head, “There, my lady.”

“Oh, I can  _ breathe  _ again! You wouldn’t believe how tightly Orlesian women lace their stays, it’s ridiculous!” Gwyn took a deep breath, coughing a little as air was drawn into parts of her lungs that had been squished in the overly-tightened undergarments. “I can’t believe more of them don’t faint or have problems. I don’t need any further assistance for the day, Vi, if you would like to have some free time.”

The maid nodded happily, “Thank you, my lady. I’ll still be in the palace if you need anything, I’ll have a page stay out in the hall to fetch me.”

“Thank you, Vi.”

After the bubbly young woman departed, Gwyn padded into her bedroom, then kicked off her slippers before flopping onto her bed.  _ Home _ , she thought before falling asleep.

  
  
  
  
  



	7. Unrest in the Alienage (Gwyneth + Alistair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visual Prompt: An alleyway between ramshackle buildings with tattered laundry strung up between them, a palace in the distance.
> 
> Gwyneth is appalled to see what life in the Denerim Alienage is like.

The Denerim Alienage was decidedly not what Gwyneth was expecting. She vaguely remembered Highever’s Alienage, which was decidedly older and more worn looking than the rest of the city, looking like a dump. Compared to Denerim’s, it was palatial. Here, there was stagnant water sitting in muddy streets, despite there having been no rain for at least a week, giving off a foul odor suggesting where the liquid originated. Some of the ramshackle buildings showed signs of wood rot, and she shuddered to think of what would happen when the structures finally gave way. Anora had claimed to love her people as they loved her. It became more apparent by the day she meant the people in the Palace district, maybe the Market district if one was being generous. Her love obviously didn’t extend to the least of her subjects.

Alistair and Leliana gaped at the poor conditions. Zevran didn’t even blink. Gwyn edged over to him, “I’ve only got faint memories of Highever, are all Alienages like this?”

He gave a little shrug, “For the most part,  _ si _ . I have heard that the one in Val Royeaux is even worse, and only gets sunlight at midday because it has been built so high.”

“How can anyone live like this?” Gwyn pulled her boot free of the sticky mud, pulling a face at the wet sound. She would have to consider burning her boots.

“It is the only place safe for many. Living outside the walls usually gets their house burned down. If they’re lucky, they are allowed to escape the house first.” A muscle under Zevran’s eye twitched as he continued, “I was speaking to the handsome elf we released from Howe’s estate. The old Arl’s son liked to come in here and terrorize the women and children.”

Gwyn remembered Vaughan from the day in the Arl’s estate. Even begging for his life, there was a smug, leering quality to the way he’d looked at her. Having Zevran knife him was far too kind. Some people just needed to die.

Fort Drakon and the Denerim Palace were visible over the Alienage walls. The misery was visible from there, and yet Anora ignored it. They had been sent here because she believed her father was causing the unrest, yet it seemed it was only the final straw for the people here. They moved like dogs backed into a corner.

Alistair was speaking to two small elven children, painfully skinny and scuffed up like they’d been in a fight. He reached into the pouch on his side and split the bun he had saved from their breakfast, and gave half to each child. Gwyn was starting to think he would have to become king, despite his misgivings. Between Elissa’s warnings about Anora and Loghain, and what she was seeing here in the heart of their nation, it might be the only choice.

“Shall we?” Gwyn kept her voice cool and detached. She would think about it later, and help her fellow elves now, as much as she could. She would ignore the twist in her stomach, and the ache in her heart.

If Alistair took the throne, what would become of their love?


	8. Memories Fleeting (Gwyneth + Alistair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Apple
> 
> Gwyneth finds out about the sacking of Highever.

Denerim’s marketplace was a cacophony of colors and sound. Even with the light, misting rain the lanes between the stalls were crowded with people purchasing spices, fabrics, food, and other goods. Gwyn was glad for the hooded cloak Arl Eamon had given her back in Redcliffe, it covered her ears and hid the bits of her armor that had Warden heraldry on it. With all the hustle and bustle going on around her, she suspected that even if she did have her armor showing, it wouldn’t do anything.

There had been ‘Wanted’ posters at the city gates. The artistry was so poor, the heraldry on it looked more like a misshapen bird than a griffon, and the portraits of Alistair and her were more potato-like than likeness. Thank the Maker. Even still, she gripped Spellweaver’s hilt, and kept her coin purse in her breastplate. This was supposed to be just a stop on the way to Orzammar, as their supplies were dangerously low. 

Gwyn followed Alistair from stall to stall with Wynne and Leliana, letting him take the lead, although he didn’t realize it. Even with her ears covered and Hero trotting at her side with a small pull-cart harnessed to him, a few of the merchants had realized she was an elf, and tried to overcharge. Alistair and Leliana had helped her understand more of what items should cost since she knew nothing of it from the Circle, but simply being an elf meant the merchants weren’t willing to haggle, saying she could take the higher price or nothing. If she had Alistair play the part of a knight with an elven servant, he could get a good price, as she handed him the coin from the purse. If- no, when- they removed Loghain and spoke to Queen Anora, she hoped Her Majesty would take the necessary steps to change things. Overcharging the poorest people of the city, knowing that they had no choice but to pay the inflated price or go without, was wrong.

Sten, Morrigan, and Shale were at their camp outside the city walls. A grey giant, comparatively naked apostate, and giant golem were all but impossible to hide, even in the throngs of citizens and refugees. Zevran was sitting in a tavern listening to gossip for them, gathering valuable tidbits of information about the Blight and the sentiment of the capital city. Wynne was at Alistair’s elbow, surreptitiously using magic to check the salt beef and pork he was purchasing for safety. Across the lane, Leliana was looking at sacks of dried beans, grain, and tack. At the far end of the row, Gwyn could see a stall piled with green, red, yellow, and orange. Fresh food, something they really hadn’t had since the Dalish camp. It made her mouth water.

Alistair turned and held out his hand for coin for the meats, and as she counted them into his hand, she murmured, “Ser, might we hit the stall with the fresh produce next?”

Wynne cut off the beginning of a protest, “We all need something fresh, Ser. One cannot live on tack, beans, and salt pork alone.”

“All right. Onward, then.” Alistair slung the sacks of salt beef and pork into Hero’s pull-cart, and plunged into the masses in the lane, Gwyn and Wynne following in his wake. Leliana fell into step with them, adding the sacks of grain and beans to the cart then patting Hero on the head in appreciation for his help. 

The laysister let out a cry of delight when she spotted fresh peaches, and Wynne immediately began digging through a basket of cherries. While Alistair looked over bunches of carrots, Gwyn found herself drawn to the vines of tomatoes. Looking up to ask the stallkeep for the price, she stopped when she spotted a small basket hanging out of reach. Seven apples were on display, mostly yellow with a rosy red blush spreading out from the stem. Highever apples. She hadn’t had one in years. Teyrna Eleanor had sent her some for Satinalia every year, but they always ended up being taken away to be served to the Templars. 

“Gwynnie, don’t you like oranges?” Alistair nudged her side, pointing to another basket. 

She nodded, “Every Satinalia, it was what I looked forward to the most.”

He signalled to the stallkeep, “Half a dozen of the oranges, please. Anything else?”

“How much are the Highever apples?” Gwyn asked, not taking her eyes off the fruits.

“They’re fifty silver apiece, ma’am.”

“Fifty silver? Maker’s sake, why? Is it the Blight?”

The woman looked uncomfortable, “No, ma’am. When Teyrn Howe took over the teyrnir, many in Highever refused to work… from what I hear, the crop was left to rot in the orchards for the most part. Created scarcity, it did. Bleeding shame.”

“Teyrn Howe? What happened to the Couslands?” 

The stallkeep gave her an incredulous look, “Where have you been, that you haven’t heard?”

“Pardon, Mistress, my colleagues and I have been on the road, and all our messengers went astray.” Alistair jumped in, gripping Gwyn’s hand in the shadow of their cloaks.

“The Teyrn and Teyrna were plotting with Orlais, or so the Crown says,” the woman’s voice lowered, “Personally, I don’t believe it. They were heroes who helped end the Occupation, you know? Anyhow, King Loghain says they were traitors, and Teyrn Howe overthrew them to save the country. Or so the Crown says. Killed them all, from what I heard through the grapevine. Even the Teyrn’s grandson. He was just a little boy, couldn’t have been part of the plot. That alone makes me suspicious.”

“Maker have mercy…” Gwyn was inundated with the memories she had, however blurry, of Highever and the Couslands. Splashing in puddles in the keep courtyard with Elissa, Papa Torven swinging her up onto his shoulders to take her with him to the mabari kennels, Teyrna Eleanor smiling and patting her on the head when she gave a perfect curtsey. She felt lightheaded, trying to process everything.

“Wynne, take the coin purse. Get everything in the pile next to Leliana, and one of the apples.”

“But-”

“The cost doesn’t matter, Wynne. Not right now. Hero, stay with them.” The mabari barked, then whined in unhappiness.

Alistair pulled Gwyn away, walking her down the lane to sit under the awning outside one of the taverns. “Breathe, Gwynnie.”

She gripped his hands tightly, unable to speak. His face was hard, eyes flinty. “He’s declared himself king, did you hear that? Once we have the dwarves and we’ve sent the Archdemon to the void, we’re marching back here and I’m going to knock that crown off his head myself and become King just to spite him. For Duncan, and Cailan.”

She nodded. “What about Queen Anora?”

The hardness melted to worry. “I don’t know. We’ll have to see, get the lay of the land. Maybe Zevran will hear something we can use?”

“Maker, I hope so.”

Wynne and Leliana joined them, and Hero whined and placed his head in Gwyn’s lap, sensing her distress. She patted his square head, only looking up when Alistair took her hand and placed the apple in her palm.

“Here. Eat up.”

Obediently, she took a bite, feeling the skin break under her teeth, and the warm, sweet-tart juice flooded her mouth. The apple scent flooded her nose, and Gwyn remembered sitting next to Elissa at a lesson table, eating bites of apple given to them as a reward for being able to spell words correctly. 

It was as sweet as ever - and yet tasted like death and ashes and old memories - even as she took another bite. Would she ever be able to stomach another Highever apple after the Blight was over?


	9. Light and Dark (Fen'lath and Solas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: Darkness, Breathless, Prophecy, Kiss
> 
> Solas's POV when Fen'lath finds him in Trespasser.

“Solas.”

He flinched at her voice. Solas had meant to be long gone at first, until he had felt the Anchor discharge. It was a painful tearing through the Fade and the Veil, the screech of a violin string shattering through what should be harmony. The Qunari and their Viddasala had provided a momentary distraction, then he turned away because he could not face her, not without taking a moment to steel himself. 

Turning and looking over his shoulder at her, he drank in the changes. 

Fen’lath had cut her hair. Though he knew he had no right to, he mourned the midnight waterfall he’d often tucked behind her ear as they lay in bed. Despite everything, she stood tall, proud, and no longer tilted her head like she was hiding her missing vallaslin. 

Mythal’s voice echoed through his mind, amused.  _ Such strength in that mayfly body. The light in the darkness, a pity she wasn’t born in our time.  _ It echoed a prophecy a much younger Mythal had spoken not long before her demise.  _ “Your light will guide you through your darkest times, and yet you will be the one to extinguish that flame. You must, or all will be lost.” _

A thrum ran over his skin, and again the Anchor exploded in Fen’s palm. Her screams of agony knifed through him, and the pull of the Anchor gravitating towards him scratched nails over his skin. Solas stepped forward, keeping the turmoil he felt locked inside poorly hidden. He had done this to her. She was going to die because of him. Unless…

Solas pulled on the Fade as he had not done in centuries, and flooded the Anchor with the raw energy, calming it and ending those awful cries of pain. The Anchor shrank, becoming a tiny slash of green as it had been when he had left the Inquisition. Fen stood immediately, tear-streaked face turning up to his, eyes searching for something. With the pain no longer pinching her features, he could see new freckles had come in, and the scars from Haven had faded to thin divots, adding to, never detracting from, her beauty.

“That should give us more time. I suspect you have questions.” He couldn’t help but meet her eyes, Fade green and stunning as ever.

Her voice, rough from the screaming, breathed out a raspy, “Later.”

She stole his breath, leaping at him. He reflexively caught her against him, her arms coming up to clutch at his shoulders and neck to pull his mouth to hers. His defenses crumbled immediately at the first lungfull of elfroot and embrium-scented air, the cool tang of a health potion on her tongue. Mythal snarled at him, telling him to remember their purpose, reminding him he had to take the Anchor - and Fen’s life - to have any hope of succeeding, and he was losing himself in her again.

She let out a shuddering sob against his mouth, “I missed you so much.”

He was long lost. Lifting Fen high against him, he strode from the marshy ground to the soft grass under one of the trees. “ _ Ma theneras _ .” 

  
With all that was before him, the road he would travel alone, he needed his waking dream, his light in the darkness. With the fresh memory of her scent in his lungs, her taste on his lips, her warmth filling his heart, he could march to his death in peace.

What was success, without her?

* * *

Fen remained singularly distracting as they talked. They had been silent for long moments as they re-dressed. The buckles of her armor, so recently shoved aside in their desperation for each other after too long, rested crooked, one misbuckled. There was a blossom, fallen from the tree they had lain together under, stuck in her hair. Solas was pondering reaching out to take it when she asked, “What about the mark?”

She held up her palm. He could feel the painful thrumming that let him know that his temporary measure to keep the Anchor stable was drawing to an end. A flutter at the back of his consciousness concerned him. It almost felt like Mythal was undoing his repairs.

“There’s still the matter of the Anchor. It’s getting worse.”

“I know, vhenan. And we are running out of time.”

Solas felt the moment it gave way, and the Anchor exploded in Fen’s palm. The first shriek of agony brought tears to his eyes. It sounded too close to the same cry she had made when he witnessed the loss of their baby boy in the Fade. That cry had haunted his dreams.  _ Make it quick, Dread Wolf. Do not make her suffer any more than she has to. _

So this was it. But, Solas felt in his heart, it did not have to be the end Mythal saw. Kneeling in front of Fen, he said softly, “The mark will eventually kill you. Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you… At least for now.”

Desperate, tear-filled Fade green eyes locked with his. “I won’t give up on you. Solas, var lath vir suledin.”

_ Do it, Dread Wolf! You know what you must do! _

“I wish it could, vhenan.” Fen screamed in pain again, and he leaned close, pressing the palm with the Anchor in it to his chest. His heart. Solas could feel Mythal’s fury,  _ this was not her plan _ . “My love…”

He pulled her close, one last kiss. Just one more... He felt the terrible tension in her body release as he cradled her to him, pulling the Anchor into himself. As their breath mingled, he carefully and precisely dug out every root, every tendril, every trace that could harm Fen. The hand and part of her arm were a ruin. Leaving it would mean leaving his heart, his waking dream in agony for the rest of her days, however long they were.  _ You only delay the inevitable!  _ Mythal’s tone became desperate.  _ At least take the Well from her! _

He stood, leaving Fen kneeling with a flushed face, reddened lips, her hand and arm dissolving into ether. “I will never forget you.”

Solas turned, walking back to the Eluvian, not turning when he heard her call to him, “Solas! Fen’Harel! Please!”

She didn’t know that he had spared her, even as Mythal was battering at him, furious that he had ignored her demands. 

_ This will ruin everything! All of my -our- plans! _

He opened his palm, looking at the blossom he had pulled from Fen’lath’s hair, and smiled, slowly, secretly. 

_ Good. _

  
  
  
  



	10. Return to Me (Marian + Fenris)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One Word Prompt Week: Restless 
> 
> It's Marian's turn to stay in Starkhaven with Maureva.

Now, Marian supposed, it was her turn to sit up at night and worry about Fenris. She couldn’t go to the Tevinter border with him to save the people who had been taken in the slaver raid; Maureva needed to have one of her parents with her. Plus, there was the fact that she was so close to having their twins, she couldn’t see her feet without a mirror or other assistance...

She rolled back and forth in their bed, too empty now that her elf was gone, even with Valor snoring away on Fenris’ side. After a few hours of the babies dancing the Remigold about her insides, they were finally asleep themselves, it seemed. If she could only sleep herself, Marian would be happy. Mournfully, she realized that getting the pillows adjusted just right so she could sleep was out of the question without Fenris as well. Marian couldn’t reach to pack them under her back while her pillow-arranger was gone. 

At least he was writing her letters, and there was hope he would be back home in time to see their sons’ birth.

Accepting that she wasn’t going to sleep any time soon, Marian wriggled around until she was propped upright, and picked up the latest letter from her side-table. A flutter of her fingers lit her candle, and she read over the words again.

  
  


_ My Marian, _

_ I caught up with the slavers before they reached the Tevinter border. The people they took are free. We are moving slowly, as some of them are injured or sick. Some are scared of me, despite everything. I have stayed apart from them for their comfort, the healer and soldiers Sebastian sent along with me take care of them. The way the people stare is unsettling. It’s like they think I will attack them. Am I just a caged wolf at Sebastian’s beck and call to them? _

Marian set the paper down, anger coursing through her as it had the first time she read the letter. Fenris was so much more than his markings, but they seemed to be all that most saw. When she wrote her reply, she would reassure him that he was a man, not a caged wolf or a wild dog. He was smart, skilled. It wasn’t every day that someone could go from complete illiteracy to composing their own letters and reading everything they could get their hands on, even the driest of tomes, in less than five years. 

His handwriting was as lovely as ever, far finer than she had ever managed. They would need to work on longer sentences, perhaps, but that would come with time and more reading.

_ In any case, please give Maureva my love. Being without the two of you is lonely. I found some pretty ribbon for braids in Hasmal. It is enclosed. _

Smiling, Marian reminded herself to let Fenris know that Maureva had insisted on Orana braiding her hair into a coronet with the silver-blue ribbon woven into it. The silk matched her markings, and complimented the tan of her skin. Her baby was growing up into such a beautiful girl so quickly. 

_ We had to move on quickly to catch the slavers. I could not spend as much time looking for something for you. But, I did find a necklace. I think the gems match your eyes quite well. _

Glancing at the end table, she felt warmth flood her. The agates in the pendant did indeed match her eyes. 

_ We will be home in Starkhaven two weeks after you receive this, I think. That is my best estimate going by what Scout Matlin said. Tell Valor I get my side of the bed back. And, tell our boys they’re not allowed to come out until I get home. That may be harder to manage than getting my side back from the dog. _

_ I have done some thinking. You had wished to name Maureva ‘Leto Malcolm’ if she was a boy. I think that one of them should have that name. It is [the ink here was smeared, as if Fenris forgot that he could not simply wipe teardrops away when the ink was wet] and a good name. For the other, I like Leander. It means ‘lion-man’, and is similar to your mother’s name. If you do not mind, Sebastian is a good middle name. Unless you want to give the damn dwarf’s name to one of them as well. Perhaps Sebastian Varric. I imagine he would appreciate the humor. _

As she had on the first read, Marian’s eyes welled with tears and she giggled at the same time. Varric would positively explode if one of the children shared his name and Sebastian’s. It would be a perfect way to annoy him, but Leto and Leander had a ring to it, as did Leander Sebastian. She’d probably write to Varric and tell him they were naming one of the boys Sebastian Varric just for the reaction, though.

_ It is my turn to take watch. Know that I am yours, and my heart belongs to you forever. _

_ Fenris _

It would be another few restless nights, but her beloved would be home soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope all my dear readers are doing well, what with *gestures at everything going on*.
> 
> I spent most of 2019 unemployed, which is not conducive to creativity and writing for me. Now, doing WFH with all that's going on, I'm trying to do more writing again, but we'll see how it goes. Everything being posted currently is stuff I wrote in late 2019/early 2020 and I'm catching up with actually sharing it with the world.


	11. The Bells of Denerim (Gwyneth + Alistair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LI POV Week Prompt: “Why are you looking at me like that?”
> 
> It's Alistair's wedding day. The only problem is, the bride is Elissa Cousland, not Gwyneth.

So, it was his wedding day. 

Alistair really hadn’t ever given thought to marriage, especially after being sent to the Templar monastery. When Duncan had taken him into the Wardens, it just seemed like a logical progression that he would remain single, and spend his days protecting Thedas from the Blight. And then…

Gwyneth. 

Twitching with impatience while his Gentleman of the Bedchamber, Martyn, helped to dress him in the Fereldan Russet armor with its fur-trimmed capelet that Teagan had selected for him, Alistair swallowed against the lump in his throat. Elissa Cousland was kind, and accepting of the necessity of their marriage… but she wasn’t Gwyn.

Guilt roiled in his stomach. He should have pushed harder to be able to marry his fellow Warden. Yes, she was an elf, and a mage, but she was the slayer of the Archdemon Urthemiel, and savior of the kingdom. Surely, that would have counted for something? She also deserved to be more than his dirty secret, with the two of them surreptitiously creeping through the private corridors in the royal wing of the palace. Gwyn deserved to be a queen.

Gwyn had encouraged him to start visiting Elissa’s bedchamber immediately after the defeat of the Archdemon, since they were betrothed ‘ _ per verba de futuro’ _ . It was, apparently, an old Tevinter term that meant they could live as man and wife before the vows were spoken. The legal marriage before the Grand Cleric usually only took place a month before the official wedding. It had felt like a betrayal of his beloved, even done as it was with her encouragement.

“Almost time, Your Majesty.” 

There was a look of pride, tempered by disgruntlement on Eamon’s face. Pride in being so closely associated with the new King of Ferelden, one of the first to back his claim to the throne. The disgruntlement was that after the wedding and coronation, he wouldn’t be coming to the fore to be named Chancellor of Ferelden. Alistair couldn’t put a crown on Gwyn’s head, but a Teyrna’s coronet along with a Chancellor’s Collar of Esses around her neck, he could. Elissa and Teagan had endorsed his wish to make her Teyrna of Gwaren and Chancellor of Ferelden. It had won the hour in the Landsmeet when Eamon had thrown a very politely worded fit.

The dwarven water clock in the hall chimed, and Martyn quickly fluffed the fur on his shoulders before placing a wreath of wheat on his head, a wish for the marriage to be fertile. More guilt flooded through him. He was pleased that Gwyn’s friend Solona Amell had confirmed earlier that day that Elissa appeared to be almost three months gone with child, but the knowledge that this child wasn’t truly his eldest made the knot in his stomach tighten. Alistair prayed this wouldn’t be the last child, Ferelden needed heirs, and he’d rather chew leather than let Eamon go after Elissa for a lack that was his fault, not hers. 

“It is time, Majesty,” Martyn said as he bowed to Alistair.

“Right, yes.” 

He pulled his shoulders back, steeled his nerves, and walked with a dignity that the Revered Mother at the monastery had been certain he would never have. Fergus Cousland and Gwyn were waiting to escort him to the Chantry and stand as representatives of the Landsmeet. Fergus was in similar armor, overlaid with fabric in Highever blue and white rabbit fur. His breath caught in his throat looking at Gwyn. The cream kirtle and Gwaren green overdress complimented her perfectly, gold cord wrapping showing that the months of living in the palace, with a warm bed and plenty of food had filled out her shape. He hadn’t had time to truly appreciate the grace of her neck during the Blight, but with the firestorm of her hair pinned up in pearl-studded cauls, he couldn’t help but stare a little.

“Majesty,” Gwyn curtsied to him as Fergus bowed. 

“Fergus. Gwyn.” His voice was hoarse with anxiety. “Would you walk with me for a moment, my lady? Help keep the king from fainting before his wedding and coronation?”

Fergus let out a little snort of laughter, and Gwyn smiled. 

“Of course, Your Majesty.” She linked her arm with his, and they proceeded towards the front of the palace. Once they emerged into the courtyard to walk to the Chantry, she would need to take her place behind him with Fergus, but until then, he would admire his beloved. Even still, they had to process at a ‘stately’ pace, which would give him time.

He noticed the little sidelong glances Gwyn was giving him, and the points of her ears and cheeks flushed.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Saving this moment in my mind. Being Chancellor, you’ll have to travel all over Ferelden frequently. I don’t see you being an absentee Teyrna, either.”

“Anora might still renounce her claim to the throne.”

“I highly doubt that. She’s dead-set on maintaining her title of Queen. I can respect her sticking to her principles, though.”

“Mmm.”

The courtyard door approached far too quickly, and they stopped so Gwyn could put the hood of the overdress up over her hair to protect her ears from the early autumn chill. Alistair assisted her, settling it over the cauls and making sure it didn’t pinch her ears.

Taking in his fill of her face, and the gentle flush that still clung to her cheeks, a lump rose in his throat as he wished he could kiss her.

“Well, shall we, my lord, my lady?”

Alistair turned back to the doors, and as they opened, the roaring cheer of the crowds poured over him, the bells of Denerim tolling for their new king and queen.

Stepping forward, Alistair walked towards his future with the wrong woman, while the right one followed behind.


	12. In the After (Gwyneth + Alistair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LI POV Week  
Prompt: The aftermath of the Archdemon fight.  
Prompt: Whispers, a gentle touch, eyes filled with heart ache, a sob then smile.  
Prompt: “I would do anything for you, how can you not see it?”
> 
> Alistair visits Gwyneth as she recovers from the aftermath of killing the Archdemon Urthemiel.

The room was dark and quiet. Wynne had told him to stay out while she tended to Gwyneth, and Alistair had spent the following hour pacing back and forth, chewing a thumbnail down to the quick. She had woken after slaying the Archdemon, but the injuries she had were terrible. What if that damned ritual with Morrigan had only delayed the inevitable? Was that why Wynne had finally consented to let him into Gwyn’s room?

A shudder ran down his spine as he remembered the moment he’d fallen to his knees at Gwyn’s side, pulling the blade she had used away and removing her gauntlets to hold her hand. Removing them had exposed the terrible burns that covered her body, he presumed from being so close to the Archdemon as it expired. Even her face had not been spared. The speckled scars that patterned one side, a permanent memory of the giant spider venom that had splashed through her faceguard, stood out in the mass of reddened blisters. 

Thankfully, Wynne was fast, and experienced. In the dim lighting, he could see that Gwyn’s face was still flushed from the rapidly-healed burns, but there were no traces of the blisters. Her hands were still bandaged, waiting for Wynne to get a full night of sleep to repair all the damage from Gwyn’s gauntlets and the incredible heat that had been channeled through the sword. 

“Gwyn.” Alistair whispered, not wanting to wake her if she was already asleep.

“Alistair.”

Her response was rough, whether from pain or exhaustion, he couldn’t tell. The relief that washed over him, though, was clear in his voice when he responded.

“I know you already told me I get to kill the next Archdemon, but as your king, I order you never to do that again.” He dropped down into the chair Wynne had occupied during the healing, gently taking Gwyn’s bandage-wrapped hand in his. 

“Now there’s an order that’s easy to follow.” Her gorgeous Stormheart green eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t think Morrigan’s ritual would work. I couldn’t let you die.”

_ Oh, Maker, I do not deserve you. _

“I don’t want to live in a world without you in it, Gwyn. I don’t think I can do any of this without you by my side. I’m going to talk to Elissa and Eamon. There has to be a way-” He cleared his throat, emotion choking him. Leaning forward, he used his free hand to caress her cheek, the gentle touch barely skimming over the sensitive skin.

She blinked rapidly, eyes going bright. “You know I can’t be at your side that way, Alistair. I’m a mage, and an elf.”

“And you just saved Ferelden and the rest of the world! That has to count for something, doesn’t it?” 

Alistair felt frustrated tears in his eyes as he watched Gwyn’s heart shatter in hers. She let out a shaky breath. “It won’t count for enough. You know it won’t.”

“We can change things, I know we can!” His voice cracked. 

“I know we can. If you’re the King, with Elissa as your Queen. Someday, maybe, an elven mage will be Queen, but it won’t happen now. I’ll be here as an advisor, I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

Alistair let out a sob, then smiled at her, “If you can’t be my queen, then I’ll make you the next best thing. I know Elissa will agree with my decision to make you Chancellor of Ferelden.”

Her eyes widened.

“I’m also making you Teyrna of Gwaren if Anora doesn’t agree to rescind her claim to the throne, and Amaranthine needs an arlessa.”

“Alistair-”

“I would do anything for you, how can you not see it?”

“It’s too much.”

“I disagree. A teyrnir, an arling, and the Chancellorship will never make up for you being my mistress and not my queen.”

Gwyn’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare start throwing yourself on the proverbial pyre over this. I  _ chose _ to stay as your mistress, because Ferelden needs stability. Causing even more upheaval to put the Queen’s Crown on an elf won’t help anyone.”

He looked away. She was right. 

“I know that look. You know I’m right.”

“Yes,” Alistair groused.

“Regardless, I will be here, and we’ll find a way to make everything work.”

He raised her bandaged hand to his lips.

“You won’t be able to stop me from making you Chancellor, or making you a teyrna, you know.”

“Shit.”

“If I have to suffer being King, you have to suffer with me. You get to have a maid ordering you around like I’ll have a valet ordering me around.”

“Get my boots, I’m going to go hunt darkspawn. They can put me out of my misery.”

“Not so fun when the shoe is on the other foot, is it?”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “You really are a royal bastard.”

Alistair laughed. It wasn’t what he wanted, per se, but he would keep her as close as he could possibly manage.


	13. Bookworms (Marian + Fenris)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LI POV Week Prompt: “When it is just you and I, the world around us fades and nothing else matters.”
> 
> Fenris finds Marian reading a book of poems by Catullus.

Fenris was running late for dinner. He knew Marian would give him that endearing, exasperated look she had perfected over the years, but he had good reason for his tardiness. The satchel of books thumped against his side, tomes carefully selected from his personal collection that he believed deserved a better shelf to rest on than the mouldering heap in the mansion. The previous week, she had asked to see more of the books he’d purchased for himself, not just to keep them safe from mould and rot, but because she valued his recommendations. Warmth flooded his chest. She had opened the doors to the world of the written word for him, and he was happy to share what he had found with her.

Over the weeks since their reconciliation, close to half of his collection had been squirrelled away to the Amell estate. Marian had even obtained a new bookcase, solely for him to fill with his books. Fenris had been picky at first, bringing only his favorites or the ones he most treasured, like the Book of Shartan she had given him, and some of the harder-to-find of Brother Genitivi collection. 

He nodded to Bodhan as he ducked into the Amell estate. “Bodhan.”

  
“Messere Fenris!” The garrulous dwarf was quieter than normal. “Mistress Marian is up in the library. She hasn’t slept well this past week, if she’s asleep, please wait for her to wake on her own.”

Fenris frowned. Marian hadn’t said anything to him the previous evening at the Hanged Man. Perhaps she didn’t wish to worry him. Strange woman. While he might not always show it on the outside, he was always concerned for her on the inside.

After slipping up the stairs, silent as a ghost, he peered into the library. Marian was indeed asleep, slumped over in her chair. Head back, mouth open, and breathing out heavily with tiny little snorts, she had a book open in her lap. Creeping closer, Fenris felt a funny twist in his stomach when he realized it was his book of Catullus poems. 

Was she reading 85, the one that had sent him into a firestorm of emotion the first time he had read it, prompting him to purchase the slim tome? Carefully, he reached out and flattened the pages. No, it was- 

“I like these, did he write more?”

Fenris jerked back in surprise, landing on his rear as Marian let out a sleepy chuckle. She stretched her arms, letting out a groan as her back audibly cracked. He stood and rubbed his smarting backside, grousing, “How long have you been awake?”

“Only long enough to get a tuft of your hair up my nose.”

“Hmm. Are you ready to dine?”

“I’d rather hear you read that poem to me. I like listening to you speak.”

Fenris felt heat creep up his neck and ears. “Well, in that case,” He lifted the book from her lap, and sat on the footstool she had kicked away at some point before he had arrived. “Ah, number 5.”

“Let us live, my Livia, and love,

and the rumors of rather stern old men

let us value all at just one penny!” 

  
Marian recited the first three lines, the twinkle he loved so much dancing in her eyes as she spoke them.

“Suns may set and rise again;

for us, when once the brief light has set,

an eternal night must be slept.”

Fenris watched her eyes close as he spoke the lines, savoring the words, or perhaps his voice. He stood and leaned in, and breathed the next lines against her lips.

“Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,

then another thousand, then a second hundred,

then yet another thousand, then a hundred;”

She interrupted him with a kiss, one of the hundreds they must have shared since that night when she welcomed him into her heart and home again as her beloved, not just the friend he had been for the previous three years. Pressing his thumb to her chin and separating their lips, he traced along her cheek to speak into her ear, low and husky.

“Then, when we have performed many thousands,

we shall shake them into confusion, in order for us to lose the count,

and in order not to let any evil person envy us,

as no one will be aware of how many kisses have there been.”

Marian let out a shaky breath in his ear, “Been memorizing that one, have we?”

He grinned and pulled away, not too far, just the right distance, “I have been told that when one is courting, it’s appropriate to use poetry to say what you yourself cannot.”

“So, what would you say in your own words, my warrior poet?”

Fenris considered. He needed a moment to order his thoughts, and asked, “What about you?”

“I asked first.”

“I am well aware, but I need a moment to consider my words. The times I have not, I have said things that I know have hurt you deeply.”

She blinked, as if surprised that someone was taking her feelings into account before speaking.

“Well… I think you are the strongest person I know. Not physically, exactly, although you are very strong, being able to swing that greatsword around like a toy. But, I think if I had gone through even half of what you have, I would’ve gone mad. Or maybe I would have just laid down and died. I don’t know,” She fidgeted, fingers tangling together and tilting her head forward so her hair provided a jet curtain to hide behind. “But I am so very glad that you were strong enough to survive all of it and find your way to me.”

Fenris swallowed around the lump in his throat, “When it is just you and I, the world around us fades and nothing else matters. I think-no, I know- that is why I was strong enough to endure after meeting you.”

Spring green sparkled through the veil of dark hair. “We are a fine pair of overly-romantic saps, aren’t we?”

Before she could speak, Marian’s stomach let out an audible growl of hunger. Fenris let out a bark of laughter. “The dwarf’s influence, no doubt. Anyway,” Fenris reached a hand out to her, “Shall we have dinner before that dragon in your belly escapes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sequel of sorts to Chapter 8 - Read from Dragon Age Camp NaNoWriMo April Edition 2018. You should give it a read if you have not done so already. =]


	14. Malcolm's Legacy (Marian + Fenris)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LI POV Week Prompt: Legacy: The LI’s thoughts as they watch Hawke discover and learn about their father wishing their child would not be a mage. 
> 
> The revelations in the Warden prison in the Vimmark Mountains cut deep.

“I’ve bought our freedom, Leandra. We can go home now, us and the baby. We’ll be together.” 

Fenris bit down on the growl he felt rising in his throat as the demon taking the form and voice of Marian’s father spoke again. She watched the thing with a pained look on her face, eager for anything of Malcolm Hawke, long dead and left behind in his grave in Ferelden. After his first comment about her blood mage father, he’d bitten his tongue more than once to stop making more. The look on her face… if he had slapped her and then punched her in the gut, she could not have made it more clear how betrayed she felt. By Malcolm Hawke, by him, or by a silent Carver, standing at her shoulder in his Templar armor, Fenris couldn’t say. The Abomination had been glaring daggers at him since. He needed to stop and think before speaking again, or he risked truly shattering her. 

“I hope it takes after you, love. I would wish this magic on no one.”

Marian’s face crumpled, and she let out a broken little sob, clenching her hands to her chest like she could ward off her father’s wish that she would not be that which she was. Even Carver seemed surprised by the words echoing around them. 

“May they never learn what I’ve done here.”

A wild laugh escaped from Marian as the specter of Malcolm faded. Fenris knew she had not asked for this: the magic or the insane goose-chase through a mouldering prison in the Vinmark mountains. She turned to her brother, who was shifting back and forth uncomfortably, armor plates making clanking and squeaking noises as he did so. 

“Father didn’t want a child with magic? He got that one wrong twice over.” It was hard to tell whether Carver was gloating over being the only Hawke child who was not a mage, or bitter. “I guess the Templar’s not such a disappointment now.”

Anders opened his mouth to speak, but stayed quiet as Marian slashed her hand through the air at him. The last thing either of them needed was another of his rants about the Order, or Carver in particular. The glare she shot her brother was tired, broken. “Why did you join the Templars? Carver, shouldn’t this make you want to, I don’t know, offer a reason for joining the Order?”

“I have to defend the one moment I stopped waiting and did something?” Carver asked, incredulous.

Fenris got a strong urge to give Marian a hug, although he felt she would not welcome or appreciate it at the moment. Her shoulders were slumped, eyes sunken with exhaustion, and the tone of her voice carried a decade of responsibility and resignation. “If you wanted to spite me…”

“No!” Carver shot Marian an insulted look. “See, right there is the problem. For the longest time, I thought it was you, but it wasn’t. We spent so long running, and why? Because of magic, the Blight, money, and abuses. Well I’m no mage, I’m no Warden, and you didn’t need me.”

  
Sliding to Marian’s side, Fenris laid his hand, lightly as he could, on her back. He knew from their long talks over the years that she did need Carver. She loved her little brother, and hated when their mother had set her as the standard for Carver to live to, while neither of them could achieve the impossible heights Bethany had maintained in Leandra’s eyes. She slid her hand behind her back to tangle her fingers with his, anchoring herself to him as Carver continued to speak.

“But maybe, maybe there’s one thing I can do. Father believed in a Templar. Why can’t I? Aveline blocked me from the guard, mercenary work would have taken me away from Kirkwall and Mother, I would rather starve than work for Athenril again. I stopped waiting for you to come back, and  _ I  _ made the choice to become a Templar. For me, more than the money to support Mother.”

Fenris was starting to understand, even if Marian could not at the moment. Her back straightened, and the fingers gripping his tightened, “I’m not sure what to think. So I should be proudly angry, or something? You joined the Kirkwall Templars, people who have whipped Tranquil in public, that you know are raping the people they’re purportedly supposed to protect! What do you think you can do amongst people like that?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. But I can do something now. Or at least try. I did worry, sometimes, for you two. Bethany just wanted to be ‘normal’. As if I made a good case for it.”

Marian’s head dropped forward, “I'm tired of losing things. I miss Bethany, Father, you too, sometimes, and… well. Gamlen can be a git, but he brought Charade into our lives. Then there’s cousin Solona in Ferelden. I’m glad I haven’t lost everyone.”

Fenris flinched, and fought the urge to pull his hand away. The guilt bubbled up in his chest. She still thought she had lost him. Marian didn’t understand, because he didn’t know how to tell her, he was hers, through and through. But as long as Danarius was out there, waiting, he wasn’t truly free. The chains were still there, invisible, waiting to snatch him back. As long as his former master lived, he couldn’t… he just couldn’t. 

Gently, he extricated his fingers from Marian’s when she suggested they move forward. Anders glared at him, all silent resentment and eye-daggers. Fenris ignored him. Marian was the best mage he had ever known, and he believed that if Malcolm Hawke could see his daughter now, he would not regret that she was one. Or so he hoped, for her sake. 

It was an odd feeling to have about a mage, but this was Marian. The woman, the mage, he loved.


	15. Ar lath Ma (Fen'lath + Solas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LI POV Week Prompt: Conflict of loyalties, growing desire, a choice soon to be made, a kiss
> 
> The Balcony Scene, from Solas's point of view.

He should not be doing this. And yet, Fen’lath had saved Wisdom, given him a chance to speak to her one last time before sending her back to the Fade as a mere wisp of what she once was. Solas stood at Fen’s balcony overlooking the Frostbacks, so familiar and so different from the image in his mind. She was right there at his elbow, close enough that the heat of her body warmed him. She did not see the chasm between them, the distance of millennia of life and experience as she raised her face to the sun to let it warm the smooth skin of her tanned cheeks. 

The purple branches of Mythal’s vallaslin mocked him, reminding him of his loyalty and duty to the People, and his failure. For so long, he had only one goal in mind, and that had faltered and shattered in the explosion that had destroyed the human Temple of Sacred Ashes and brought this marvelous woman into his life. His fingers itched to touch her for more than the gentle brushing of hands and arms that he had allowed himself. 

The desire to hold her and never let go grew every day. Solas wondered if when his power had fully restored, she would allow him to lay the world at her feet. That caused another twist in his stomach as they spoke. He would have to choose, sooner or later. It frightened him to realize that he truly couldn’t immediately say who his choice would be. He couldn’t, because…

“It means I have not forgotten the kiss.”

That one single kiss in the Fade, where Fen sent his world spinning off its axis, and he lost himself in her for those precious few moments. Solas could feel her surprised gasp against his lips as if it had happened seconds ago, instead of weeks. The eager press of her body against his as she threw herself into it with all that she had, as she did with everything she was passionate about.

The Fade green of her eyes peered up at him through long, downswept raven lashes. “Good.”

Fen came closer, swaying, putting her arms back and daring him to kiss her again. Oh, how he wanted to. For a breath, he drew in the light of the Frostbacks shining on her hair, in her eyes, warming her skin. Shaking his head, he turned away. She was too good for him, and he had to stop this before he lost himself completely in his Dalish wolf.

“Don’t go.”

Her fingers were gentle, not a hard grip to force him to stay, but just there to keep his attention. His resistance shattered under that soft touch.

“It would be kinder in the long run. But losing you would…”

Fen made that tiny gasp again as his lips met hers. 

The world stopped, there was nothing but the heat of their bodies, the bright light of the sun streaming down around them as he wrapped her in his embrace, and Fen’s arms came up to hold him close. If it was possible, the kiss was even more magical than the one in the Fade. The tiny details that the Fade would blur were more prominent, such as the wisps of her hair pulled free of her braids that tickled against his cheek, the soft leather of her kidskin gloves brushing against the nape of his neck, and the little noise she made at the back of her throat when he pulled her hips closer to his.

Solas pulled back, the words that had been bubbling in his chest for longer than he was willing to admit rising and coming out.

“Ar lath ma, vhenan.”

He turned and left the balcony, retreating to his quarters off the rotunda. Once the door closed behind him, he let out a heavy sigh.

_ Ar lath ma, Fen’lath Lavellan. However unworthy of you I may prove to be. _


	16. Quiet (Fen'lath + Solas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LI POV Week Prompt: A quiet moment, relaxing, a kiss on the cheek, unexpected softness, a laugh
> 
> The party returns to Skyhold after their foray into Emprise du Lion.

_ Skyhold. At last. _

As smooth as Elgar’assan’s gait was, a week of spending the full day in the saddle had taken its toll on Solas’s hips, legs, and back. Fen had fared little better. While she was used to riding harts and halla, with Lavellan she would have been able to switch to the seat on her aravel if the saddle became too much. Solas observed as Fen nearly fell off of Stormhart into Blackwall’s arms, apologizing profusely while thanking him for his assistance. 

Solas flagged down one of the servants scurrying to and fro in the courtyard. 

  
“A word, if I may?”

“Yes, ser?”

“Please send into the keep and request a bath be drawn for the Inquisitor. As hot as can be managed without being scalded.”

“Ser.” The servant nodded and hurried off.

Fen waddled up to him, hissing in pain, and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Do you mind helping me up to my room, Solas? I don’t think I can handle the stairs by myself.”

“I am in little better of a state, but I will certainly try,  _ vhenan _ .”

“Thank you.” She gave him a small grin that quickly became a grimace as they tottered up the stairs. 

The Orlesians in the great hall began whispering as soon as they entered, fans coming up to hide their mouths from prying eyes. Solas rolled his eyes. One would think that their relationship would be old news at this point. After the Plains, after Adamant, after the Winter Palace, they were still being gawked at as though they were walking out together for the first time.

Fen was tiring quickly, arm growing loose about his waist, and the awful cough that still lingered from the Emprise rattled out of her. As soon as he had her through the door to her quarters, Solas pulled on her gently to get her to sit on the bottom stair.

  
“Rest for a moment, Fen. The bath will still be there for you, and you need to catch your breath.”

“All right.” She sat down heavily, “Thank the gods I don’t have to leave again for at least a few days.”

“Where shall we be going next?”

“I have no bloody idea. I’m hoping it’s somewhere warm. Not Hissing Wastes warm, but warm.” Fen lounged back, propping her elbows on the stairs behind her, and arching to stretch. The audible cracking that followed made Solas wince. “Oh, so much better.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a bit, before Solas reached out to her, “Your bath awaits,  _ vhenan _ .”

“I don’t want to get up, I’m fine right here.” 

She did look more relaxed than she had been for the last week. 

“Fresh clothing that does not smell of hart or horses.”

“Pull me up.” He took Fen’s hand and pulled her up, wincing again as she cracked and popped in protest.

She leaned against his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in his shirt. “Okay, I like it here, I’m staying right here.”

Solas let out a soft laugh, and lifted her up against him before creaking and cracking up the stairs. He wasn’t a young man anymore, despite how youthful she made him feel. At the first landing, he paused, “I am afraid that you will need to see yourself up the rest of the way.”

“Urrrgh.” Fen dropped down and the two of them limped up to the top.

The giant tub was in the center of the room, still steaming and wafting the scent of elfroot. Both he and Fen stripped and climbed in, gingerly at first until they adjusted to the heat, then settling together, her back against his chest. Breathing in the steam, he felt the tension in Fen’s muscles melt away as the heat relaxed them both. 

She nuzzled up against his cheek before placing a soft kiss on his jaw.

“Do you think we can stay here forever?”

“We can certainly try. I do, however, think the water will grow cold eventually.”

“And our fingers will go all pruney.” She slid her slim fingers between his and lifted their joined hands out of the water to inspect them. “Not that they aren’t already most of the way there.”

“Mmm.” 

She blew out a soft sigh. Solas glanced down at her, the soft, loving look she was giving him caused an unexpected smile to cross his face.

“I wonder what Lady Montilyet would make of it if we expected her to come up here and debrief you while we were like this.”

Fen snorted out a laugh. “After walking in on Dorian and Bull's bedroom activities unexpectedly, I don’t think anything we do would phase her anymore. At least she'd knock first.”


	17. Here With Me (Gwyneth + Alistair)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “You make me feel safe.”
> 
> The night before Gwyneth departs to find a cure for the Calling.

It was done. All of her personal possessions had been packed away into storage, either in the Denerim palace or Gwaren keep. Horses and a pack bronto were waiting in the palace stables, and all of her faithful companions were lodged at the inn along the North Road outside of Amaranthine. They would meet there, and continue their journey to Highever and pay respects to Teyrn Fergus and Teyrna Caterina. A ship would take them across the Waking Sea to Cumberland, and from there- 

“Gwyn, are you going to get any sleep at all?”

Gwyneth turned to Alistair, his form filling the doorway behind her and blocking the torchlight from the main room. She gave him a small smile. “Not likely. There’s still so much to think about, and I-” she choked against the little bubble of pain in her chest, “I have to say goodbye to Duncan in the morning. If morning doesn’t come, I don’t have to do that, right?”

Alistair sighed, sorrow pinching lines into his face, making him look far older than his thirty years of age. “It will have to happen eventually, my dear.”

Gwyn rose from her seat at his desk and padded barefoot across the Rivaini carpet. Tucking her head under his chin, she said, voice cracking, “I keep telling myself I am prepared for this, as prepared as anyone can be thanks to the book Morrigan gave me, and everything else. I just… I don’t like that you won’t be by my side. You’re home, and...you make me feel safe.”

“Oh, Gwynnie.” A twinkle of the Alistair from the Blight shone through for a moment. “I have a surprise for you. Something to help.”

“What is it?” He took her hand and guided her from his study to his privy chamber. Gwyn dropped his hand with a delighted cry and surged forward, “Leli!”

Laughing, the Left Hand of the Divine caught Gwyn in a hug, knocking her hood off and setting her ginger tresses swinging. “Hello, Gwyn! Alistair asked me to come and bless you for your journey.”

“Thank you, Leli. I appreciate it.” Gwyn embraced her friend again, “Who knows you’re here?”

“Just you, Alistair, Zevran, and Darrian,” A cloud fell over Leliana’s face, “With everything going on in the Chantry after Kirkwall, I thought it best not to draw outside attention to our friendship.”

Gwyn nodded, “It must be hard for you and Her Perfection.”

“It is. Seeing you has lifted my spirits, and reminded me of what is important in the long run, and what the Chantry must stand for if it is to survive. Did you tell her, Alistair?”

“Tell me?” Gwyn looked between her friend and her beloved in confusion.

Shuffling his feet, Alistair flushed and murmured, “Leliana has another gift. For us.”

Leliana set her hands on Gwyn’s shoulders and looked her over with a critical eye. “You couldn’t convince her to put on a dress first, Alistair?”

“They’re all packed away!” 

“Dress? What’s going on?” 

Leliana made an odd disgusted noise in the back of her throat, “No matter, but next time, she’s going to be in a dress.” She pinned Alistair with a gimlet eye, “I will get a sketch to you, and it will be made as soon as Gwyn gets back, oui?”

“Hello, Leli? Alistair? What’s going on?” 

Gently tugging Gwyn’s hands, Leliana pulled her over to a pair of cushions set on the floor, and reached under her cloak to pull out a small statue of Andraste, and a white silk cord shot through with gold and red. 

Gwyn froze. “Leli?”

“Zevran, Darrian, come in please.” Leliana said as she set out a candle and a small incense censer.

“Bella,” Zevran nodded to Gwyn with an impish grin. Alistair walked to Gwyn and Leliana, and pulled Gwyn to a kneeling position next to him. 

“Alistair, what is this?” Gwyn winced at her own voice as it pitched far higher than normal.

“This might be the only chance we have for what we’ve wanted since the Blight.” His face was uncharacteristically solemn, and he took both of her hands as Leliana draped the cord around their shoulders. 

Leliana stepped forward, cloak set aside, Andraste pendant worn around her neck and at her waist, and swung the incense censer around them. 

“The Light shall lead you safely

Through the paths of this world, and into the next.

For those who trust in the Maker, fire is their water.

As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,

They should see fire and go towards Light.

Dearly beloved, we are gathered in the sight of Andraste and wreathed in the smoke of holy flames to see these two souls joined in blessed matrimony. As the Light leads the faithful to the Maker, so should you lead each other to Light. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker’s will is written, and it is the Maker’s will, as well as your own, that you spend the rest of your lives as one. Alistair?”

Eyes filling with tears, Alistair gazed on Gwyn’s face, “You may not come back from this, Gwynnie. When you do, because I refuse to believe you won’t, I want you to take the place you always should have had, as my wife, and my queen. Denerim isn’t home without you. Nowhere is home if I don’t have you by my side. I can’t breathe until you’re resting here with me. I swear unto the Maker and Holy Andraste that I will love, honor, and keep this woman for the rest of my days.”

Gently taking one of her hands from Alistair’s grip, Gwyn wiped at her wet cheeks. “You’re marrying me in my nightgown, and my hair all a mess?” 

He shrugged, “I would marry you in a potato sack with a rat nesting in your hair.”

She laughed, then looked up to Leliana, “ _ You _ agreed to marry me to Alistair in my nightgown and my hair all a mess?”

Leliana sniffed, “I told him to tell you to get dressed, but c’est la vie. Your vows?”

Gwyn turned back to Alistair. “I swear unto the Maker and Holy Andraste that I will love, honor, and keep this man for the rest of my days. You have already given me so much: love, acceptance, the most perfect little boy in all the world. I didn’t need anything more than that. More than you. I-” She choked on a sob, and waved for Leliana to continue.

“What the Maker has joined, none can put asunder. Alistair, Gwyn, you may kiss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!


	18. The Graves (Fen'lath + Solas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: “Don’t be scared, I’m right here.” & “Everything is fine.” and "Wheezing breaths, a burnt smell, soft footsteps, a clenched fist, a flash of red"
> 
> The Red Templars in the Emerald Graves find the party.

“Vhenan!”

Fen’lath had never heard Solas yell for her in that tone of voice. The strident note of fear caused the word to crack, and she tried to turn her head towards the sound, but couldn’t move. Everything was dark, and there was a chorus of wheezing breaths coming from… somewhere. She couldn’t see, were her eyes open or closed? Was she asleep and dreaming? What was going on?

“Don’t be scared, I’m right here.” That was Dorian, voice shaky and Fen felt him take her hand. “Solas,  _ do something. _ ”

“I  _ am  _ doing something, Dorian! Get my pack!”

She must be asleep, they sounded like they were getting further away, and bright flashes of Fade danced across her vision. A burnt smell wafted past, they must be in camp and the scouts were preparing breakfast. One of them always burned the first ram haunch that was put over the fire to cook every morning. 

“Don’t touch it, Bull, we need to-” Solas cut off, too far away for her to hear.

The flashes of Fade became swirls, and she saw an elven woman with long, dark brown hair and warm eyes, so dark a brown they appeared black, with Ghilan’nain’s vallaslin in swirls of white crossing the deep tanned skin of her face.

“Ma’fen,” she reached out and folded Fen into her arms, redolent with the scent of elfroot and vandal aria. There was something familiar about her…

“Mamae?”

A delighted smile crinkled the corners of Tenala’s eyes, “Oh, ma’fen. You have grown into such a strong, brave woman, and I am so proud of you.”

Tears fell down Fen’s cheeks, “Oh, Mamae! Why didn’t you come back?”

“I tried, Fen, please know I tried. I didn’t want to leave you, or your father, but I had no choice. I don’t want to let you leave now, but it’s not your time.”

“I don’t understand, Mamae.” Pain rocketed through her chest and across her right arm, and Tenala caught Fen as she stumbled. Voice straining against the growing tightness, Fen clung to her mother and looked up at her in fear. “What’s happening?”

“Be brave, ma’fen. They need you. He needs you most of all and above all things, though He is too stubborn to admit it.”

A scream tore from Fen as she curled in against the pain. It felt like her chest was collapsing in, then being forced back into place. A gentle hand smoothed across her hair, “I love you, my beloved daughter.” The arms around her melted away, and she heard soft footsteps as she collapsed to the ground. Another white-hot streak of pain shot through her, and the agonized scream shattered the Fade around her, flying away like splinters of sea glass. 

Fen opened her eyes, watery with pain, to see Solas standing over her, face pale and sweat pouring from his brow. His eyes and fist were clenched tight, the last glittering remnants of a Revive spell shining from between his fingers like pale green sunbeams. 

Dorian breathed out, awed, “Sweet Maker have mercy.”

Fen felt a heavy thump, then heard Bull snort out, “Shit. You can just-- is this some necromancy crap?”

Clenching her hand in his, Dorian stared at Solas like he’d seen a ghost, “This is nothing like what I do.”

Solas’s eyes opened, an odd flash of quicksilver in them before becoming their normal stormcloud grey-blue, and the tension around them faded in relief when they met Fen’s. “Vhenan.”

He slumped to the ground. Bull, with a speed Fen had never seen before, leapt over her and grabbed Solas before he could hit his head. “Easy there, bud. No use in bringing Boss back only to get yourself killed.”

“What happened?” Fen turned her head to Dorian. The tightness in her chest and arm was still there, but felt like something that just needed a good stretch.

“I don’t think you’ll believe me if I just tell you, my darling. Here,” he shifted, bracing Fen and helping her sit up, “You need to see.”

Across the clearing was the giant she remembered fighting, and the Great Bear that had charged in before the giant had died. A flash of red caught her eye, and Fen sucked in a breath. A Red Templar behemoth lay in the dirt, splinters of red lyrium scattered across the soil dark with the blood of the creature.

“That… that  _ thing  _ surprised all of us, you took the brunt of its first attack. That claw-hook arm… well.” 

Fen followed Dorian’s gaze. The chestplate Solas had insisted she start wearing months ago was a few feet away from where they were, the right side of the chest collapsed in and bent near in half. Chills prickled across her body, “Dorian, did I…?”

“It took us at least five minutes to get that off you without doing any more damage. I never thought I would say this, darling, but Solas was absolutely frantic. I didn’t understand even close to a quarter of the words and runes he used. I’ve never, in all my time studying magic, seen anything like it.” 

She sagged in her friend’s arms. “I was dead, wasn’t I?”

Bull, holding Solas under one arm, said, voice gruff, “As a doorpost, Boss.”

Looking down, Fen rolled away from Dorian and vomited after seeing the tattered remains of the under-armor barely preserving her modesty. So much blood-- had those been splinters of _bone_ \-- how? 

“Everything is fine, darling. You’re all right.”

Fen looked up at Solas, dangling under Bull’s arm like a ragdoll, and wonder accompanied by a tiny fissure of fear ran through her. What  _ was  _ he?


	19. Hidden History (Background Fen'lath + Solas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Ages Later and Thedas has another Inquisition going on. This time the new Inquisitor stumbles upon historical records about your Inquisitor, and how they reveal something that the scholars and universities have been debating (AKA: Furiously arguing over) about for ages. What is it, and the aftermath.
> 
> Da'Enaste Revasan finds Skyhold.

Da’enaste Revasan held her hand aloft, sending dancing mage-lights up to light the rafters soaring overhead. Tarasyl’an Te’las was real. The old magic still hummed in the stones, and the spirits drawn to the magic wandered through the hall, wispy actors playing out the ancient Inquisition from before the Veilfall. Supposedly, this was where her family line was born out of the love between one considered a god and an extraordinary elven woman. 

The Chantry, clinging to old beliefs battered and bruised by the Ages and evidence, insisted that the Inquisitor Fenath Lavan had been a human woman from Wycome, sent by their Maker to banish the demon Corypheus and reveal the old Dalish gods as frauds. Da’enaste felt anger bubbling in her chest. She was going to prove them wrong at last.

She would not be here without them, she reminded herself. They had appealed to her as the foremost scholar from New Arlathan on the pre-Veilfall human kingdoms, Chantry, and Dalish, to find the ruins of Haven, and the mythical Skyhold, and made her Inquisitor to show their esteem, such as it was. They still held a grudge for some of those events, it seemed. 

Spells woven around her feet removed the dust and grime of centuries from her path as Da’enaste picked her way through fallen timbers, through a rotunda with shattered plaster scattered across the floor, colors from whatever frescoes had been on the walls still jewel-bright. Looming overhead, she could just make out bookcases.  _ That might be a good place to look, after finding the Inquisitor’s quarters. _

Turning back to the main hall, she opened doors and peered into the rooms revealed. A hallway, a tunnel down into the bedrock- perhaps where the famed Undercroft would have been?- and a staircase that led up. More magelights spun up the stairs. The stone used for the ascent was newer than the stone surrounding it. Curious. At the top, she gasped against the biting cold wind whistling through broken windows. This must have been the Inquisitor’s domain. The remains of the stained glass showed vague tree motifs. Da’enaste gasped again when she spotted a wall tapestry that was still in good condition, and nearly tripped over her own feet rushing over and weaving preservation spells around it at the same time. The heraldry on it was a Dalish mask, surrounded by bare-branched vhenadal trees. No human woman would have used elven heraldry in their personal quarters, not at the time of the Breach.

Removing the tapestry and rolling it up, gently brushing dust free from the nap of the fabric, she tucked it into the pack on her back. A half-rotted desk sat on the other side of the room, contents of the drawers spilled across the moth-eaten rug after it collapsed who-knows-how-long ago. Sifting through the remains of the timber, she preserved and pocketed a halla amulet, and picked up a few books that looked promising.

A folio of papers fell out of a bookshelf when she pulled a few more books free to peruse. They scattered across the floor, and Da’enaste let out a victory screech when she realized what was on the parchment. Sketches, with names and dates. Her hands shook as she wove the preservation spells again, keeping the paper intact and also allowing for proper provenance to be established. Eager and triumphant, she picked up the top paper. A female elf, with the vallaslin that had been out of favor for Ages branching across her cheeks, peered out from the page, Anchored hand raised and closing a rift. The points of her ears were clearly visible, as was scarring on her mouth and neck. In a neat spidery script, it read “Inquisitor Fen’lath Lavellan. Exalted Plains, Crow Fens near the Gamordan Stormrider.”

Not Fenath Lavan. Fen’lath Lavellan. This was proof that in the post-Veilfall chaos that had befallen the Chantry, they had burned every record or object d'art that would have revealed their Herald of Andraste wasn’t an elf. Again, an elf’s ears had been clipped off by history. Righteous anger filled her chest. No more. Never again.

* * *

Divine Victoria the 7th sat on the Sunburst Throne and startled as the doors at the other end of the somewhat dilapidated Grand Cathedral slammed open in a blue-green burst of magic.

“Inquisitor Da’enaste, please, have some respect for the antiquities.” The Divine reached up, gently shifting her headdress back into its place between her horns.

“I could say the same, Divine Victoria.” Da’enaste slammed her staff on the floor. “I have found the remains of Tarasyl’an Te’las and walked its halls. I have found and preserved treasures from the Old Inquisition, and have found that, like the First Inquisition, it was led by a Dalish Elf. Her name was Fen’lath Lavellan, not Fenath Lavan, and her clan was the one that developed the Wycome Accord.”

A silence like she had never heard settled over the masses in the Cathedral, and Divine Victoria sagged in the throne. Da’enaste gestured for her assistants, also elves from New Arlathan rather than the Chantry hangers-on she’d been forced to work with, and they marched forward with the artifacts found at Skyhold. 

“From the Inquisitor’s own rooms in the ancient fortress, a tapestry with heraldry of Dalish origin, a halla amulet, and drawings of the Inquisitor.”

The Divine straightened, and turned to the small gaggle of Chantry scholars, “Please, inspect these items to verify their age.”

At Da’enaste’s nod, her assistants departed into a side room to allow the scholars to inspect her findings.

“Well, Inquisitor, what shall we do?”

“I want access to the Chantry archives, in perpetuity and without restriction.” She watched the woman on the crumbling throne go very still. “I see you know what’s in there. The Canticle of Shartan, the Song of Ameridan, the history of Queen Gwyneth of Ferelden, all of the Chantry’s writings about Inquisitor Lavellan. You cannot hide it and piecemeal it out anymore to call them human, nor can you deny that you hold your place on the Sunburst Throne due to Divine Victoria the First’s interactions with Inquisitor Lavellan.”

The qunari Divine gave her a stiff nod.

“And I demand all elven objects held by the Chantry be returned to New Arlathan.”

The chamber exploded in noisy objections as the Divine and Inquisitor glared at each other, the mission over, but the conflict still living on.


	20. Friendship (Background Fen'lath + Solas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Your OC's relationship with a non-companion (or Advisor) NPC.
> 
> Dalish and Fen spend time being Dalish-y and elfy together.

Dalish sat on one of the battlements, carefully selected because only someone who had spent their childhood scrambling through ancient Elvhen ruins could truly find all the hand and toe holds on the walls. Of course, the fact that one needed bare or wrapped feet to find the holds to make it to the top also helped. She pulled the cork from the bottle wrapped in brown paper, and took a sip of the liquor within.

Heat spread through her chest as the taste of home hit the back of her throat, making her cough against the strength of it. Turning her face to the sun setting over the Frostbacks, she took another pull of the liquid.

“Starting without me, hmm?” Fen’lath’s raven head popped up over the lip as she hauled herself onto the roof.

“It’s not my fault you’re late, lethallan.” Dalish smiled and held out the bottle.

Fen settled down next to her on the boards and took the liquor, then sipped. “Ah, perfect. Shemlen liquor leaves me with the feeling that my mouth is coated in syrup.” 

Wrinkling her nose, Dalish snorted, “At least you can be reasonably sure you’ll live through drinking their swill. Has Bull made you taste that maraas-lok of his yet?”

The other woman’s face screwed up in disgust. “Right after we killed that dragon in the Hinterlands. No one told you I got alcohol poisoning from that?”

“You didn’t!” Dalish threw her head back and laughed at the expression on Fen’s face.

“I most certainly did. I was so drunk I could barely walk, but I made it to Solas’s room, told him I didn’t feel good, vomited at his feet, then passed out in his arms.”

“At least you ended up in his arms, ey?” Dalish waggled her brows.

“He’s still talking to me, so there is that,” Fen opened the pouch at her side and took out a loaf of bread and some hard cheese. Removing one of the knives she always wore strapped to her thigh, she checked the blade to make sure it was clean before slicing the cheese and bread. Around a mouthful, she said, “I suppose if your beau still lets you into his room after tossing your stomach on his feet, it’s a good sign.”

“Has he said anything about it?”

“Not to me, but he has informed Bull that he is no longer allowed to give me alcohol. Not that I’m complaining about that. I’d feel terrible if I had to tell Bull that I’d rather just off myself to get it over with before drinking that swill again.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, my clan sends me bottles of our homebrew every chance they get.”

Fen’s eyes went misty. “I do miss my clan’s brew. You’ll let me help drink yours, right?”

“You really need to ask?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for now. If the writer's block releases enough for me to get anything written before the anniversary for this collection, I'll post it here. Otherwise, it'll go in an entirely new one.


End file.
